She stopped short, but Strike thought he knew what the end of the sentence would have been. Taking a chance, he said:
“This job becomes well-nigh impossible if your home life’s screwed up. I’ve been there. I know.”
Relieved to have been understood, Robin drank more champagne then said in a rush:
“I think it’s made me worse, having to hide what’s going on, having to do the exercises in secret, because any sign I wasn’t a hundred percent and Matthew would be yelling at me again for doing this job. I thought it was him trying to reach me on the phone this morning, that’s why I didn’t want to take the call. And when Winn started calling me those names, it—well, it felt as though I had taken the call. I don’t need Winn to tell me I’m basically a pair of walking tits, a stupid, deluded girl who doesn’t realize that’s my only useful attribute.”
Matthew’s been telling you that, has he? thought Strike, imagining a few corrective measures from which he thought Matthew might benefit. Slowly and carefully he said:
“The fact that you’re a woman… I do worry about you more when you’re out alone on a job than I would if you were a bloke. Hear me out,” he said firmly, as she opened her mouth in panic. “We’ve got to be honest with each other, or we’re screwed. Just listen, will you?
“You’ve escaped two killers using your wits and remembering your training. I’d lay odds bloody Matthew couldn’t’ve managed that. But I don’t want a third time, Robin, because you might not be so lucky.”
“You are telling me to go back to a desk job—”
“Can I finish?” he said sternly. “I don’t want to lose you, because you’re the best I’ve got. Every case we’ve worked since you arrived, you’ve found evidence I couldn’t have found and got round people I couldn’t have persuaded to talk to me. We’re where we are today largely because of you. But the odds are always going to be against you if you come up against a violent man and I’ve got responsibilities here. I’m the senior partner, I’m the one you could sue—”
“You’re worried I’d sue—?”
“No, Robin,” he said harshly, “I’m worried you’ll end up fucking dead and I’ll have to carry that on my conscience for the rest of my life.”
He took another swig of Doom Bar, then said:
“I need to know you’re mentally healthy if I’m putting you out on the street. I want a cast-iron guarantee from you that you’re going to address these panic attacks, because it isn’t only you who has to live with the consequences if you’re not up to it.”
“Fine,” muttered Robin, and when Strike raised his eyebrows, she said, “I mean it. I’ll do what it takes. I will.”
The crowd around the paddock was becoming ever denser. Evidently the runners in the next race were about to be paraded.
“How are things with Lorelei?” Robin asked. “I like her.”
“Then I’m afraid I’ve got even more bad news for you, because you and Matthew aren’t the only people who split up last weekend.”
“Oh, shit. Sorry,” said Robin, and she covered her embarrassment by drinking more champagne.
“For someone who didn’t want that, you’re getting through it quite fast,” said Strike, amused.
“I didn’t tell you, did I?” said Robin, remembering suddenly, as she held up the little green bottle. “I know where I saw Blanc de Blancs before, and it wasn’t on a bottle—but it doesn’t help us with the case.”
“Go on.”
“There’s a suite at Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons called that,” said Robin. “Raymond Blanc, you know, the chef who started the hotel? Play on words. Blanc de Blanc—no ‘s.’”
“Is that where you had your anniversary weekend?”
“Yeah. We weren’t in ‘Blanc de Blanc,’ though. We couldn’t afford a suite,” said Robin. “I just remember walking past the sign. But yes… that’s where we celebrated our paper anniversary. Paper,” she repeated, with a sigh, “and some people make it to platinum.”
Seven dark thoroughbreds were appearing one by one in the paddock now, jockeys in their silks perched atop them like monkeys, stable girls and lads leading the nervy creatures, with their silken flanks and their prancing strides. Strike and Robin were some of the few not craning their necks for a better view. Before she had time to second-guess herself, Robin introduced the subject she most wanted to discuss.
“Was that Charlotte I saw you talking to at the Paralympic reception?”
“Yeah,” said Strike.
He glanced at her. Robin had had occasion before now to deplore how easily he seemed to read her thoughts.
“Charlotte had nothing to do with me and Lorelei splitting. She’s married now.”
“So were Matthew and I,” Robin pointed out, taking another sip of champagne. “Didn’t stop Sarah Shadlock.”
“I’m not Sarah Shadlock.”
“Obviously not. If you were that bloody annoying I wouldn’t be working for you.”
“Maybe you could put that on the next employee satisfaction review. ‘Not as bloody annoying as the woman who shagged my husband.’ I’ll have it framed.”
Robin laughed.
“You know, I had an idea about Blanc de Blancs myself,” said Strike. “I was going back over Chiswell’s to-do list, trying to eliminate possibilities and substantiate a theory.”
“What theory?” said Robin sharply, and Strike noted that even halfway down the bottle of champagne, with her marriage in splinters and a box room in Kilburn to look forward to, Robin’s interest in the case remained as acute as ever. “Remember when I told you I thought there was something big, something fundamental, behind the Chiswell business? Something we hadn’t spotted yet?”
“Yes,” said Robin, “you said it kept ‘almost showing itself.’”
“Well remembered. So, a couple of things Raphael said—”
“That’s me on my break, now,” said a nervous female voice behind them.
63
It is a purely personal matter, and there is not the slightest necessity to go proclaiming it all over the countryside.
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
Short, square and heavily freckled, Tegan Butcher wore her dark hair scraped back in a bun. Even in her smart bar uniform, which comprised a gray tie and a black shirt on which a white horse and jockey were embroidered, she had the air of a girl more at home in muddy Wellington boots. She had brought a milky coffee out of the bar to drink while they questioned her.
“Oh—thanks very much,” she said, when Strike went to fetch an extra chair, clearly gratified that the famous detective would do as much for her.
“No problem,” said Strike. “This is my partner, Robin Ellacott.”
“Yeah, it was you that contacted me, wasn’t it?” said Tegan as she got up onto the bar chair, making slightly heavy weather of the climb, being so short. She seemed simultaneously excited and fearful.
“You haven’t got long, I know,” said Strike, “so we’ll get straight to it, if you don’t mind, Tegan?”
“No. I mean, yeah. That’s fine. Go on.”
“How long did you work for Jasper and Kinvara Chiswell?”
“I was doing it part time for them while I was still at school, so counting that… two and a half years, yeah.”
“How did you like working for them?”
“It was all right,” said Tegan cautiously.
“How did you find the minister?”
“He was all right,” said Tegan. She appeared to realize that this wasn’t particularly descriptive, and added, “My family’ve known him for ages. My brothers done a bit of work up at Chiswell House for years, on and off.”
“Yeah?” said Strike, who was making notes. “What did your brothers do?”
“Repairing fences, bit of gardening, but they’ve sold off most of the land now,” said Tegan. “The garden’s gone wild.”
She picked up her coffee and took a sip, then said anxiously:
“My mum would do her nut if she knew I was meeting you. She told me to keep well out of it.”
“Why’s that?”
“‘Least said, soonest mended,’ she always says. That and ‘least seen, most admired.’ That’s what I got if I ever wanted to go to the young farmers’ disco.”
Robin laughed. Tegan grinned, proud to have amused her.
“How did you find Mrs. Chiswell as an employer?” asked Strike.